Alphabet Soup and Hippogriff Poop
by noodlepancake
Summary: In which Malfoy seeks help. His help runs off. Missing people, missing information, and missing... hearts? Someone has it out for the Slytherin Prince and the Gryffindor Princess. Oooh how mysterious! Set in Sixth year, disregarding both HBP and DH. :
1. Chapter 1

New Story. The "*" parts are the end of the story if you wish to read them. I left them out of the actual story because it caused unecessary parenthesis, but I still wanted them to be written. So, yay! Read if you'd like. Or if you like Draco. Or Draco and Hermione. And do keep in mind that I don't have anything against Ron or Harry (I love them both actually), but for the purposes of my story, they may not be exactly to your liking if you are absolutely smitten with them or whatever. So yes. Please read and tell me whatever thoughts you have. I am all ears. Or in this case eyes. Weeeeeeeeee. Read on my dears.

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><p>~PROLOGUE~<p>

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><p>Ron. Of course it was Ron. It was <em>always<em> Ronald Weasley.

Everywhere she went, he had made his presence known too. Whether it is turning up in the library- when he has, in passing, verbalized his immense hatred of a place that could bore one so acutely- to "do his homework" by her side* or by sabotaging her Hogsmede date with the timid but endearing Ravenclaw Curtis Vonigly by slipping her a potion that he had made; a potion to give her a common cold and thus miss her date. Along with the Hogsmede trip. Not to mention the whole next week of classes.

This said "ailment draught" was not completely what it was meant to be- apparently upon brewing a potion in a cauldron that was not cleaned properly, the current potion's effects combine with the effects of whatever potion was left behind.

And intensifies the magical properties of both.

Therefore _Hermione_, thanks to Ron's carelessness and poor hygiene, was actually a _terribly sick Ron_ for first Hogsmede weekend of their sixth year- further proof that Ron does not do homework. Even second years knew the cardinal rule of potions and cauldrons.

Harry at least found it entertaining that he had not only one Ron around, but two for a few days. That is until Hermione/Ron turned her anger and frustration out into violence onto Harry's person.

Ron/Ron would have found the whole situation hilarious if the situation hadn't landed him in the hospital wing to be treated for multiple hexes (courtesy of Hermione/Ron).

He told himself that at the very least he succeeded in ensuring that Hermione would be free of that stupid Ravenclaw*.

It happened to worsen the situation that by appearing as Ron, Hermione was consequently reminded of Ron and the fact that he was everywhere.

It became apparent to Hermione Granger that something would need to be done. Something had to be done stop Ronald Weasley.

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><p>It was the first day of October and Hermione Granger had the pleasure of having her body back to normal for a week after the whole "I am really Hermione but I look like Ron" polyjuice-potion-mix incident. She quickly mumbled the password to the Fat Lady and entered the Gryffindor common room and made her way to the couch beside the fire, taking in the room about her that she had been absent from for an entire week.<p>

She had resorted to hiding out in the room of requirement for the days that she was Hermione/Ron and went straight to Madame Pomfrey once the polyjuice effects wore off. Hermione would not have normally have acquiesced to being treated in the hospital wing when she had the capacity to fix herself, but Harry, the kind dear friend he was, pointed out that Promfrey could heal her faster than she could heal herself: "The longer you are sick, Hermione, the more class time you will miss. It's up to you." Falling behind and letting Draco Malfoy take her place as top of the class was just simply unacceptable. The day she let that happen would be the day that Voldemort suddenly sprouted a nose*.

She had missed enough school to the point where Malfoy was probably peeing himself with excitement at the prospect of finally having a chance to best the "Mudblood".

So the remainder of her week of exile was spent amongst the crisp white beds of the hospital wing plotting various ways to kill Ronald Weasley. Metaphorically of course- Hermione knew prefect duties came before her personal life issues. Dumbledore would probably revoke her privilages or something if she actually _did_ kill him. If her badge was taken away, that would _kill_ her. So Ron's fate was out of her hands. For now.

Lost in her thoughts, she failed to notice two figures bounding down the stairs from the boy's dormitories.

"Hermione? Is that you?" Harry peered down from the staircase at the girl who sat tiredly in the couch by the fireside. The girl turned and smiled at Harry. Her gaze traveled a bit and landed upon something over his shoulder. Whatever she saw caused her face to twist into a scrutinizing scowl. Harry threw a look over his shoulder to see Ron looking a bit sheepish and bit back a chuckle. Apparently the Chosen One wasn't the only one with problems. It seemed that his mate Ron was like one big, giant walking problem.

"Go away Ron," the girl said as she turned around to face the warmth emanating from the fire.

"What about me Hermione?" Harry whined, "Do I have to leave too? Because, you know, I had absolutely nothing to do with any of this and I really truly believe that I honestly think that–"

"No. No you can stay, Harry," she said calmly before her voice took on an element of steel and finished pointing blindly in Ron's direction, "but _he_ can go."

"Hermione, now let's be reasonable. Your cold wasn't that terrible and you have to admit that at least being me wasn't so horrid, I am a delight for the eyes after all."

Hang her bloody prefect duties. Hermione Granger was going to strangle Ronald Weasley.*

"Ron if you value your life you will leave and not try to speak to me until I say otherwise, alright?"

Ron appeared as if he was having a difficult time swallowing. His face held an unattractive mask of wonderment and fear all warped together. He had really done himself in this time.

"And I for the record I think I would have preferred being the giant squid for a whole month than being trapped in your body," snapped Hermione.

She said no more as she stubbornly sat. She overheard Harry laugh and pat Ron on the back saying something along the lines of, "Sorry mate, guess she didn't like what she'd seen" followed promptly by the slamming of the boys dormitory door.

Harry sat on the couch beside her and took in her appearance. She looked quite frazzled with wild eyes dancing with rage on her face that was clearly riddled with fatigue. Her brown hair was going every which way due to the lack grooming- not that he blamed her- she was in the hospital wing after all. He smiled. "Hermione, how are you getting along?"

"Brilliantly," she responded, her voice lackluster.

"Enough energy for sarcasm I see. You may yet survive and live to see another day Hermione."

"Yes. Yes I might. I don't know if I can say the same for Ronald."

Harry laughed. "He can't help it. He just wants to protect you… he means well."

Hermione chuckled humorlessly. "Oh how silly of me for being upset! If only I had known I was laying there poisoned in the hospital wing for _my_ _own protection_."

"Well I never said Ron had intelligently handled that situation. Or that he was intelligent at all, for that matter."

Hermione looked up and with a look of warmth at Harry. "Thank you, Harry."

"Don't thank me; I am only taking your side for first because "Hermione" comes before "Ron" in the alphabet."

Hermione's left brow arched slightly up her forehead, "You git. What does the alphabet have to do with anything?"

Harry got up from the couch and grinned. He said nothing.

"Goooooooooodnight!" Harry sang as he pranced up the stairs, most likely, Hermione presumed, to console their idiot friend Ron.

Hermione rolled her eyes and sank back into the couch. A grudging smile graced her lips as she thought that her life would be easier if she found some new best friends.

Sane ones, perhaps.

But who was she kidding? She was not mad at Harry, she could not be angry at Ron forever. After all, the latter was everywhere she went. And her life would be much more pleasant without the said redhead complaining and wailing all day for her forgiveness. But she supposed that a few days free of dealing with Ron would be worth it. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to sleep.

* * *

><p>Hermione exited the Gryffindor common room for breakfast. Her hair now groomed and somewhat tamed, the dark circles under her eyes now completely banished. All traces of fury from the previous day were absent; her skin was smoothed by the return of color that had been missing from her countenance just the night before. Hermione Granger was quite sure she was prepared for quite nearly anything today. The thought of that made her grin impishly, and her chin lifted with her spirits.<p>

If she could manage to avoide Ron on her way to the Great Hall, she would praise Merlin. Her day would be complete even if it had just started. She looked over her shoulder as she made her way to the stairs to scan the scene for the unwelcome mop of red hair. Satisfied that there was nothing to meet her sight she turned her head back around. She had reached the last few steps as she heard someone screeching her name from the way she had just come. Ron. Of course. Merlin was an arse. She could not catch a bloody break. She winced as she stole a quick glance up the steps she came down and—

—tripped her way down to the last stair, only to crash into something hard and unyielding. She ended up on her back on the cold castle floor.

"Couldn't help yourself but fall for me, could you Mudblood," sneered a cold, elegant voice. She did not need to behold the face that owned that voice. That voice could only belong to one person. As if his pet names and ego were not a tell-tale to her.

"You caught me, Malfoy." She said disinterestedly as she hurried herself to her feet, briefly noting that the impact had hardly affected him. She did not have time for the Slytherin's usual snotty attitude and snide comments. She had people to avoid. Hermione quickly snatched up her wand that fell out of her robes and dashed through the doors of the Great Hall.

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><p>A very confused Draco Malfoy was left at the bottom of the stairs. The Mudblood never backed down from a verbal war with him. He knew that she had enough pride to make up for her poor excuse of heritage- and she was always quick to defend both.<p>

Draco Malfoy thought quite surely while standing there that something catastrophic must be occurring to make Granger act so unresponsive to his taunts. Maybe a giant hippogriff flew from the sky and squished her precious Potty and Weasel.

"Hermiiiiiiiiiiionnnneeeeee."

Banish that thought. The very two people whom Draco wished were currently being sat on by a large magical creature barreled past him towards the doors of the Great Hall.

"Stop yelling so loud Ron, she's not here." Was all Draco heard before they, too, slipped into the dining area.

Humph. Draco would not be so lucky to have a hippogriff do anything remotely useful. Draco smoothed his ice blond locks against his pale skin. They whole species seemed to hate Draco anyway.

As Draco pushed the doors open to the Great Hall he couldn't help but entertain the thought that they had that in common. Hippogriffs and hating things that is. Draco pretty much hated anything that had absolutely nothing to do with his glorious looks or the privileges of his pureblood status, which were far and varied. He smiled faintly. There was another quality they shared. They were both prideful creatures.

As he made his way to the Slytherin table he was grinning at the absurdly amusing path of his thoughts: he, the Slytherin Prince, likening himself to a hippogriff. And Hell sprouts daisies and is full of prancing porcupines. He really believed that such a day would never come.

He was grinning now, a gleam hardly detectable in his precious metal colored eyes. He sat down in his usual spot.

"Draco, are you going to eat that muffin?" asked Goyle, crumbs dribbling down his multiple chins.

Draco glared, quite disgusted, and promptly began to eat his breakfast disregarding his lardy housemate. Looking up his eyes fell upon Granger eating alone at the Gryffindor table. He noticed that Potter and Weasley were eating together on the other end, glancing up from their probably pointless conversation to glance at Granger occasionally.

Granger was silent as she ate her food. Her chin was angled up and she blatantly refused to even let her sight wander over to the two fools at the other end of the table. She seemed too proud to give in to her friends who were obviously trying to get her attention.

Granger was a prideful creature.

Kind of like a hippogriff.

He frowned when he remembered he had just thought the same thing about himself and hippogriffs.

He choked on his muffin. His raucous coughs tore through the room.

Did he really just correlate himself and Hermione Granger? He could not have that. That was simply unacceptable. He quickly tried to summon a redeeming thought.

"Hippogriffs are ghastly creatures. I have the looks that even the gods would drool over."

Soothed at this, he glanced over to Granger once more. And what about Granger? Where did she fit into his clever justification?

Normally he would have grouped Granger in with the appeal lot of the hippogriffs. Later he would attest it to the fact that with his near death experience of muffin chips floating about his lungs, he obviously could not have been expected to think clearly.

But while at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall during breakfast on the second morning of October, he allowed the possibility that Granger to be not completely detrimental to his eyes and therefore could not be lumped in with hippogriffs.

Draco Malfoy decided on October third that he absolutely loathed hippogriffs. And muffins.

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><p>First *- It should be mentioned that Ronald Weasley does not <em>do<em> homework.

Second *- Ron failed to notice the irony in that last thought of his. He _is_ Ronald Weasley, after all.

Third *- Which is highly unlikely.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello everyone! Thank you for your reviews, I enjoy reading them and seeing what you think about my story. So feel free to drop a line, whether it is a comment, criticism, or question. Once again I have starred (*) things throughout this chapter and followed up on them at the end. Same deal. Read on, my dears :)

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><p>In the girls' dormitories, Hermione groaned and slapped her hands unceremoniously over her eyes. She was still in bed. In a few moments Lavender Brown and the other girls would be up and gabbing loudly over which of the sixth year boys had the best bum in quidditch gear and all the normal conversations that usually came up about the sport. There was to be a game today against Hufflepuff. She was not very excited.<p>

For Hermione Granger was tired. She never knew how much energy it would require to fend off her best friend who was unfortunately thinking very un-best-friendly-like thoughts about her. The very thought of his thoughts made her cringe. She loved Ron, but she didn't _love _Ron.

She had been somewhat successful in evading his presence for the couple days, but not without a price. Because, of course, everything in life just has to be conditional: "I will love you forever… if you do my homework Hermione," or "You look pretty today- or you would if your hair wasn't… you know your hair." She had heard it all. However the whole "you can avoid your love-deranged best friend— if you want to make your other best friend's life miserable and more complicated." No, that one was all new territory to her.

And consequently, it was too, for Harry Potter. As if the poor lad didn't have enough problems already. He only had to worry about his safety everywhere he went because of a certain nose-less, psychotic, prophecy-obsessed arsehole who wanted him alive just to kill later on.

And now here she was, making Harry's life even more difficult by indirectly forcing him to split his time between his two best friends. She grimaced. She was such a horrid person. The three of them were supposed to face Harry's problems together. As a team. A trio. A triangle. And Hermione hated to admit it, but you can't make a triangle when one of its angles was trying to avoid the idiot angle and left the innocent angle to be in the middle. Because that would obviously create a line.

And everyone knows that a triangle can't very well be a triangle, when it is quite frankly a line.

Except maybe for Ron.

Hermione sighed and parted her bed drapes as she rubbed her eyes. The room appeared empty. Why was the room empty? She got out of bed and checked the time.

Oh guppersniplets.*

Hermione Granger was late. She had fifteen minutes to get to the quidditch pitch before she was officially the worst friend of all bloody time. She quickly threw on the closest clean clothes she could find, freshened up a smidgen (lateness did _not_ justify mangy-ness), and rushed to the Great Hall.

There were a grand total of two people at breakfast, and they were two love-sick Ravenclaws who couldn't really be classified as breakfasting. Unless one could count them devouring each other's faces as fulfilling some sort of nutritional requirement. It certainly seemed to be satiating their hormonal one.

Hermione quickly looked away, feeling uncomfortable and intrusive. Did they really have to carry on like that in the dining area? People did want to keep their food they were trying to eat in their stomachs.* The professors should really say something. How could they allow that to continue?

Were there any professors even here?

Hermione reached her table and while seating herself looked up to the professors' table. Empty. For the love of hippogriff poop! Even the all of the professors were already at the quidditch match. Hell, she would wager even Filch and Mrs. Norris were there.

She really was a terrible friend. Harry and Ron relied on her moral support and she was just sleeping in at all hours of the morning. She looked down at the table for food, but there was none. Good. It wasn't as if she deserved any anyway. Her stomach began to growl; she was hungry all the same— worst human being in the world or not. She sighed and moved away from the table when she noticed a small bag that had a note attached to it. Messy writing sprawled over the stain-splattered parchment. It was for her.

_Hermione, _

_The quidditch team decimated the food supplies, but I managed to save something for you for breakfast. Figured you were running late._

What a nice blokes her friends were.

She frowned when she realized that it made her feel even guiltier. She snatched the bag and sprinted out of the Great Hall, shoving some of the contents of the bag into her mouth.

She was almost to the pitch when she heard the game begin. She rushed up to the bleachers and made her way to her usual spot amongst her Gryffindor peers. Lavender Brown, who was bouncing and flailing wildly about, turned towards her and threw her arms around Hermione before she even had a chance to sit down. Hermione narrowly saved the breakfast she had been munching on from being knocked out of her grasp and put it back into the bag once Lavender stopped jumping up and down.

"Hermioneeeeeeeee! I was wondering when you were going to get here!" Lavender wailed over the deafening noise of the quidditch game before them. It was really quite a miracle that Lavender could project so loudly. It was also just really annoying.

Hermione gently peeled herself away from the girl's arms and made to ask Lavender why she hadn't thought of waking her up, but was cut off with Lavender's gasp and the squealing that shortly ensued.

"Hermioneeeee! You never said anything about dressing all house-spirited-like! Is that what took you so long to get here?"

Hermione looked down confused. There was nothing unusual about her outfit. Jeans, sweatshirt, Gryffindor scarf. Normal weekend apparel, so what was she talking about? Hermione voiced the last part.

"Your hair, silly! Your hair looks absolutely ridiculous! Like an actual lion's mane! However did you get it to do that? You look like our Mascot, how clever of you!"

Hermione frowned and self-consciously patted her hair down, as if to tame her feral tresses. Why did people always make fun of her hair? Probably because there wasn't anything else about her appearance they could tease her for anymore. Her looks weren't what they used to be. In fact, they had improved tremendously.

While Hermione was mentally enumerating all the reasons why this day sucked, a wave of feverishness swept through her. She quickly stood up mumbled a quick "I'll be right back" and rushed from the seats. Hermione realized that she was going to be sick; she suddenly felt like her organs were tying themselves in knots within her body. She began panting with pain by the time she was out of the quidditch pitch; every movement was becoming increasingly more cumbersome.

She suddenly stopped walking. She felt like she might… like she might.

She only noticed a swirl of colors; an array of black, gray, white, and green before she found she lost her sight completely. Her balance soon followed suit. She slumped to the ground with a whimper, as an unfamiliar darkness seeped into her mind. She could not fight off the aberrant slumber that was determined to consume her. A heap in the grass, Hermione Granger fell unconscious.

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><p>Draco Malfoy was very bored. He could care less about the game; <em>he<em> wasn't in it. What point is there in watching a game when you could care more about a garden full of flobberworms than the two opposing quidditch teams? He glanced around. His housemates were all cheering avidly for Hufflepuff.

Well, it's not like they would be cheering for Gryffindor.

"Does anyone want to go for walk to the kitchens and bring me some food? I am starved."

Blaise Zabini turned to Malfoy and shook his head.

"No, but bring back something for me when you go, would you?"

That was not exactly the question Malfoy had asked.

"Me too. Goyle, do you want Draco to get you something too?" asked Crabbe.

Draco didn't stick around to hear the rest. He wasn't their mum. They could get their own bloody food. And some exercise in the process. It would do many eyes of the world a favor. They were supposed to be bringing _him_ food. Did they suddenly forget that they were dealing with a _Malfoy_?

Draco grumbled all the way off the bleachers. Why was it that everyone treated him so… so redundantly lately? Crabbe and Goyle never have had the audacity to speak to him like that before. Never had been treated like a _vassal _before. He was losing his touch and didn't like it.

No, he didn't like it one bit.

His thoughts quieted as a figure stumbled into his line of sight. His curiosity was piqued. He was almost to the bathrooms when he saw this person waver and promptly collapse to the ground.

Huh.

Strange.

Because he obviously had nothing else to do,* Draco went over to investigate. The person looked like they were dead. How unfortunate. He wondered who it could be. Everyone was at the game pretty much so that ruled out—

–Then he saw the hair.

Bloody hell. It was Granger. It looked as if she had been electrocuted— her hair that is. The rest of her looked oddly peaceful. Unnaturally peaceful. Draco scratched his head. He would be damned if the girl had ever looked peaceful in her whole entire lifetime. She was always fussing over everything.

So what in the world was going on? Better yet, what in Merlin's name was he supposed to do?

He couldn't just leave her there; everyone would probably think he killed her or something. Draco snorted at that. Then he would be expelled and sent to live the Dementors of Azkaban. Or something equally terrible. Like being disinherited.

Draco shuddered.

With that last sobering thought in mind, he began to check her for signs of hexes but found nothing. Well, that rules out wand-work being involved. He sat there for a minute, just completely and utterly at a loss. What was wrong with Granger? She certainly did not do this to herself— someone was to blame. He sighed, feeling quite exasperated that nothing was coming to his cunning and creative mind. He was going to have to take her to Pomfrey, wasn't he? He made to pick her up when he noticed something that he had missed earlier.

A little ways away there was a bag. Maybe she had dropped it before she passed out? He sauntered over to the bag and picked it up gingerly. There was a note on it.

_Hermione, _

_The quidditch team decimated the food supplies, but I managed to save something for you for breakfast. Figured you were running late._

"Who wrote this?" was his first thought. His second was, "Whoever did, they are definitely whipped." He wanted to laugh at that thought that someone could be so _influenced _by _Hermione Granger ._The idea was obscene, really.

He looked for the name of the author of the note. There was none. He flipped the parchment over. It was blank. Draco narrowed his dark grey eyes at the paper. It didn't seem quite so funny anymore.

He didn't like this note. It was odd. It was unsigned. What idiot would leave an unsigned note? You can't very well impress a girl if you don't take credit for your work.* The person who wrote the note, Draco realized, was probably the same person who did this to Granger.

His mind drew up two options for Granger's current situation. That (choice A) her Gryffindor friends really did leave this bag for Granger and it had nothing to do with her current lack of consciousness.

But no Gryffindor would pass up the opportunity to bask in the glory of claiming ownership for an act of kindness so they can run around proclaiming themselves heroes. The first option was not looking so likely.

And there was the less benign option (choice B): That Granger was presently in the condition that she was in because someone either wanted her dead or something dangerously close to it.

Too bad for them then that Draco was in a mood to piss off people and upset their expectations and wishes at this moment. He was going to help Granger now, even if it was out of spite.

He glanced back over his shoulder towards the girl, feeling that most likely she had been dealt choice B.

With that ominous, solitary option in his mind, Draco Malfoy reached into the bag. He ended up with a half-eaten chocolate chip muffin in his palm. He cursed venomously. By Merlin's beard! What was it with muffins and their apparent tendency to attempts to kill people? Weren't they supposed to be innocuous and _safe_ like bunnies and Hufflepuffs?

He could not catch a break, could he? What was the universe playing at, sending lethal muffins in his path every which way he went?

It really was cruel. Bloody blasphemous, was what it was.

He growled as he threw the muffin back in the bag and stalked back over to Granger's nearly lifeless body.

Something was wrong. And Draco Malfoy decided he'd be damned if he didn't figure out. Because he would figure it out. Damnation just is not cohesive with his princely title and stunning looks.

He hovered over Granger once more. He felt quite sure that he was going to do whatever it took to get to the bottom of this.

* * *

><p>Hermione was in pain. The aches from her body delved her out of unconscious state and forced Hermione to open her eyes. She was met with a flash of blinding light as she tried to adjust from the endless darkness that she was just delivered from to the tamed hues of an autumn night. She noticed that she was in the hospital wing. The window of the tower was allowing a pale light to spill its faint rays across the floor. It appeared to be dusk.<p>

She tried to move and groaned. How did she even end up here? All she could remember was waking up late and rushing to the quidditch game. She was missing something.

"Think, Hermione!" she mentally hissed.

Well she quite obviously wasn't here for bloody kicks and giggles; her throbbing nerves told her that much. She forced herself to plunge deeper into her recollections even though her head was pounding like she was being sat on by a large mountain troll.

She wasn't feeling well.

That thought sparked a brief snippet of memory: She was suddenly leaving the quidditch game, feeling worse than absolute rubbish as attempted to make her way to the bathroom. Her remembrance ended there.

Well, from the current looks of things, she highly doubted she had even made it to the bathroom. So how exactly did she end up here? She grumbled. Hermione positively loathed when she did not know something. It wasn't even as if she could look for the answer in the library.

She was just reflecting on how much she wished she was in the library as the door to the Hospital Wing swung open. Madame Pomfrey scuttled in, quickly and quietly closing the door. Pomfrey threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure she didn't disturb her patient, but found that her patient was already awake.

"Oh!" Madame Pomfrey rushed over to her bedside, "You are finally awake! It is about time, though I don't blame you, with all of that poison in your body I was worried at one point that you might not even wake up -"

"Wait," Hermione interrupted, her heart flew into her throat and she internalized Madame Pomfrey's ramblings, "Poi- poisoned? As in, well, you know, ah… _poisoned_…?"

Madame Pomfrey's brow crinkled, "Yes that is what I mean. Unless there is another meaning of _poison_ I know nothing about…"

Pomfrey turned around to grab some medicines on the bedside table mumbling "…which is highly unlikely." She faced her patient and poured some potion into a spoon, her hand hovering underneath. Pomfrey moved the spoon towards Hermione's mouth which was already compliantly open.

"You were very lucky," She said, plopping the spoon into her mouth, "that Mister Malfoy brought you in when he did, or else-" Hermione sputtered violently and choked on the spoon. _Malfoy? _She struggled to regain her composure. Pomfrey glared at her and proceeded to refill the spoon with the potion that Hermione had just sprayed out all over.

"Come on, Miss Granger, the potion is not that horrible. I brewed it myself."

"I am sorry Madame Pomfrey. I believe I heard you incorrectly," Hermione said after successfully swallowing the dose of potion, "I could have sworn I heard you say Malfoy was responsible for bringing me here. I must be going mad."

"That is exactly what I said. You are not going mad, and you have Mister Malfoy to thank for that. And me of course. I was the one, after all, who administered the bezoar, just in the nick of time, I might add."

Hermione suddenly couldn't breathe.

Draco Malfoy had saved her life. She would have laughed if she weren't so suddenly shocked. Or if it weren't true.

Malfoy being her savoir just went against the laws of nature! Shouldn't he be the reason that she was nearly dead in the Hospital Wing, instead of being the reason she was somewhat alive in the Hospital Wing?

Something was wrong, quite obviously. There was no logical way she could arrange these pieces of information she had. Something didn't quite add up. Her being near death must be to blame for whatever she didn't know. How much didn't she know?

Wait. How long has she even been in, well, whatever state she had been in? She asked Madame Pomfrey.

"It has been five days, no less."

Bloody magnificent. She managed to miss even more classes! How was she going to maintain her marks? Now Malfoy would hang his new position as top of the class over her head, as if her debt for him saving her life wasn't already enough to torture with for all of eternity.

All of eternity was a very long time.

She suddenly became very tired and she sank back down into her pillow. She barely noticed that Madame Pomfrey had cleared the potion mess and left the room. Hermione was very drowsy.

"The healing potion must be taking effect now," she thought vaguely.

She closed her eyes gently. She had a dream that she fell asleep into dew-soaked grass and a pair of strong arms picked her up. She dreamed that those arms were warm and the voice that accompanied that warmth was speaking to her, which soothed her greatly. His voice was wonderful. She thought she could listen to him speak all day. Well, or at least she could if the voice would quit calling her a Mudblood. She did not like being called that in her dream. But none of that would even matter, because in the morning Hermione would wake up and find no recollection whatsoever of her dream, or that remember that she had even dreamed at all.

* * *

><p>First*- No idea what that could evenly possibly mean but it sounded like a good thing to say.<p>

Second *- Or they _would_… if they were here.

Third*- It wasn't like he was going back to that game. He would sooner join the Gryffindor fan section before he went back to sit with those treacherous arses he called his housemates, convicts of treason.

Fourth*- Draco knew that, he was very well versed in the art of wooing the ladies. Not that he was saying that Granger was a lady or anything.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione was out of the Hospital wing by Saturday and went straight to the library to try to catch up on the work she missed with Harry. Ron was sitting a few tables away chatting up the Ravenclaw Lisa Turpin, who was giggling at whatever balderdash Ron was spouting out quite shamelessly. Which if Hermione wasn't so relieved about not having to put up with that sort of attention, she would have found surprising— the number three student of the school seemingly stupefied (and not in the spell way) in the presence of Ron, who hated all things any Ravenclaw cherished? She expected more from the girl that hailed from the house of wit.

Her brief lapse in concentration opened the floodgates to all of the things she tried to force out of her mind while she churned out essay after essay. Namely The Incident. And Draco Malfoy.

She had fortune on her side and was able to avoid the enigmatic idiot who had had inscrutably saved her life. Hermione had no idea how to thank— let alone speak to— the enemy who had done the admirable thing by saving her.

She sighed, exasperated with herself, and leaned back in her chair as she shut her eyes.

"Hermione, maybe you should go take a short break," Harry whispered kindly, "I will finish transcribing some notes for you."

Hermione smiled slightly as she got up, "Thanks, Harry."

* * *

><p>An arm accosted Hermione and dragged her into a doorway in the corridor on her trip back to the library.<p>

"Ow! What was that—" Hermione's eyes had followed the arm up to its owner's face and surprise cut her sentence short.

"Here's the deal Granger…." Draco began before Hermione could register any coherent thoughts. But the flow of his words stopped. He continued on with difficulty and attempted to finish his thoughts with flailing hand gestures and strangled noises. He was turning a slight shade of pink due to all of his expended effort.

"'The deal Granger…' go on Malfoy," Hermione prompted once she found her voice again. She was slightly interested to hear whatever would come out of his mouth.

Draco glared frostily at her and lifted his hands into the air to conduct his message once again. But, once more, Draco's mouth was open and his melodious voice could not pass through the sanctuary of his throat. His eyes began widening with the effort of delivering words he knew not how to utter.

His hands were jerking fervently, and pointing back and forth between himself and the Hermione Granger.

"Malfoy, I don't understand sign language, so spit it out you bloody imbecile, I have to get back to the library."

Draco scowled and turned the hand that was still pointing at her up, and switched his index finger with his middle finger. He added a signature smirk for good measure.

"Hey!" Hermione cried indignantly, "Don't you dare flip me off!"

"Oh, so you do know sign language?" His smirk widened; his obvious lack of articulation recovered by his amusement. He was stalling now, he knew, but hey. Who was he to pass off a chance in infuriate the Mudblood? He was Draco Malfoy. Master manipulator of circumstance. And the circumstance was that Granger had set herself up for his antics.

Hermione huffed and raised her hand to slap him, but remembered at the last minute that she was a prefect and she liked being one. Abusing children in empty corridors was most likely against school rules. But Draco Malfoy didn't _look_ like a child anymore… could that work in her favor? "Does he look like a child McGonagall? He can take it." She sneakily looked him over searching for conformation. His un-child-like-ness certainly worked in _his_ favor. Hermione's scholarly mind allowed that his fit form and strong features made him a fine male specimen… scientifically speaking. Every other part of her mind deafened her with vocal defiance at that thought. Why was she even thinking about Draco Malfoy, even if it was just pure objective observation? She sighed heavily, quite frustrated with everyone currently present (which was the total of the two of them, both) and drew her arms around herself to prevent from leaving a nice hand print on Draco's snowy skin.

Draco was watching her internal battle play out. One moment she was staring at him curiously, hand still raised up toward him. Then she had wrapped her arms protectively about her. He raised his eyebrow and responded haughtily, "No, I do not want to hug you Granger."

"I don't want to hug you."

"That's not what your sign language said…"

She could hear the smirk in his voice.

"I don't KNOW bloody sign language you cow."

"You just called me a cow."

"I am aware."

"That is not even anatomically possible," Draco pointed out helpfully.

"I am aware," Hermione repeated stonily. She did _not_ want to start thinking about his anatomy…again.

"Well then I guess you are aware that you will be needing to work on your sign linguistics, for this to work."

Hermione noted that Draco smiled as if he was very pleased with himself about something. He must not have noticed that what just came out of his mouth made absolutely no sense. How, for the love of Merlin, did her awareness of bovine anatomy have to do with the awareness of sign language?

"For what to work, you raving lunatic?" Hermione asked, a bit wary of his evident satisfaction and whatever caused it.

"For us working together to work," Draco said slowly, spelling it out as if it were an obvious fact that he had repeated numerous times already.

Which he hadn't. Not even alluded to it.

Hermione's jaw unhinged with surprise, her eyebrow inched up at a rate that was proportional to her current level of disbelief. Which at this said moment was a very great amount, so her eyebrows were practically inching off her face.

Draco Malfoy wanted to… work with her? Not _torture_ her, or _ruin_ her, and etcetera? Not work _against_ her? In the figurative sense, of course. Not, you know, in the… literal…sense.

Cue mental images.

Hermione walked briskly into the library and Draco followed behind. Maybe with the extra speed of pace in her walking she could claim that the sudden flush on her face was due to physical exercise and not the exercise of physical thoughts.

She whirled about to face him and demand some much due enlightenment on the subject of his absurd notions once the hue of her face no longer resembled that of which made up her Gryffindor scarf.

"NO TALKING!" Madame Prince hissed from across the room, stopping Hermione from ranting at the Slytherin before she had even started to open her mouth.

Draco smirked and brought up a finger to his lips, signaling her to be quiet.

Hermione responded with a withering look that was paired with the pantomime of her pointing at herself, followed by a throat slicing motion, and finished with pointing at him. Which all roughly translated into 'I, Hermione Granger, hate you, Draco Malfoy.' Roughly.

Draco gave Hermione an impish grin after receiving her silent message. He replied with a thumbs up which was clearly said, 'Good, I am glad your sign language is improving Granger so we can get this plan that I haven't even really told you about to work.'

And with that Draco turned around and sauntered out of library without another word. Silent or signed. Just to piss Hermione off. It made him feel better about having to resort to associating with the Gryffindor.

Upon returning to his room later that evening, Draco found a note waiting for him which the school owl still sitting on his desk had apparently nibbled on while waiting for the recipient.

_Why would I want to work with you?_

Draco smiled at the recollection the encounter with the Mudblood earlier today. He was so thankful that he had the talent to infuriate her because it was infinitely easier while taunting her to say what he had needed to.

He knew Granger would come around. She was too annoyingly curious for her own good. Not that he was even thinking about her "own good." Because that, my friends, would be preposterous. And the only thing "preposterous" about Draco Malfoy was how preposterously unpreposterous he was.

He sat down at his desk and snatched a quill and fresh parchment and scribbled his reply and sent the owl off with it.

* * *

><p>Here is what Hermione Granger knew about the current state of the union. Which if you asked her, she would dismally accede that it is a pitifully short list.<p>

She knew that someone had poisoned her, which she thought was quite rude.

She was aware of the fact that Draco Malfoy suffered a sudden lapse in character and did something human and helpful for a change by coming to her aid in a dire moment.

She had an inkling that the Slytherin Prince was now experiencing a personality crisis by wanting to "work with" her. She mentally scoffed at whatever that meant. Could he honestly be less informative and more cryptic?

But that was all, really. And the latter did not even necessarily count as a fact because last time she checked, an "inkling" was not the same thing as a fact. Whatever. Who was counting anyway? Hermione was. She would add to her list whatever she bloody liked.

Upstairs in her dormitory Hermione spent the whole night replaying the day in her head.

When she awoke from her tentative "sleep" the next morning and headed down to breakfast, Harry and Ron were already there in the Great Hall. As was, she imagined, the rest of the student body, because the post was coming soon. Her glance around the room as she sat down at the table confirmed her assumption. Across the room a pair of mocking grey eyes and a smug smirk came into her plane of view. She sneered at him. He raised his brow at that, but continued to smirk even wider.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

His expression did not change.

She was about to roll her eyes out of exasperation, but Draco was spared from Hermione's look when the owls swooped in bearing gifts, treats, and letters.

"Harry! Give me that!"

"Whatever for, _Ronnikins_?" Harry asked innocently although the light in his eyes suggested something entirely different than his voice, "You weren't expecting anything from a certain Lisa Turpin, were you?"

Ron reddened and snatched the paper from a laughing Harry Potter and opened it protectively. He looked up to make sure no one was watching him read his intimate letter to find Hermione looking at the Boy-Who-Lived, who was currently dying with laughter, with a confused expression. Ron was then satisfied that he could read his letter without an audience greedily unfolded the note, and then promptly squealed with glee, "I am going to Hogsmede with Lisa!"

Harry stopped laughing and looked shocked, as if he wasn't expecting that. Hermione was already confused with the situation in the first place, so when a school owl dropped a letter in her lap, she welcomed the distraction and let her fingers break the seal of the envelope. She unfolded the ornate stationary complete with emerald swirls* and silver detailing. The dear parchment contained one word in elegant scrawl.

_Debt._

"Who is that from 'Mione?" Ron asked rather loudly, chomping away happily on his breakfast as if his life was complete.

Harry was looking at her curiously.

"It is from my mum," She lied quickly, flipping it over so no one could read it, "She was just telling me about…" Crap. What was she supposed to say now? She had no idea how to lie properly! She cleared her throat to buy some time before adding, "She was just telling me about the good news."

There. Simple. Now they wouldn't suspect her current situation at all. For her current situation rather sucked. Being in _debt_ is never good news.

"Good news? I love good news! What is it about?" asked Harry interestedly.

_Yeah Hermione, what **is** it about?_

"…About my… cat."

Erm, well, she could have made up worse.

"Then why did you look so concerned when you read the letter?"

He wouldn't let this drop, would he?

"My cat… died."

"Sorry 'Mione," Ron said, offering his condolences with an outreached hand.

But Harry was not finished.

"I am sorry Hermione, but how is that good news?"

Hermione was really starting to get put off with trying to answer these sorts of questions. The kind she didn't have answers for.

She shoved a forkful of food into her mouth to stall whatever rubbish that would inevitably spill out of her mouth.

"Don't be silly Harry," Hermione huffed and started to get out of her seat, preparing to flee the breakfast table and Harry's unwavering suspicion, "She only died once. She has eight more lives to go. I was only mildly concerned." She primly collected her things and left the Gryffindor table.

She had to work on her spontaneous lies.

Hermione looked down at her the letter which she put on top of her potions book and flipped it over. She read it again as she was walking.

It still said the same thing.

_Debt._

As she reached the doors out of Great Hall, she paused and peered over at the Slytherin table.

Draco Malfoy was now grinning manically at her.

He had seen her reading her letter.

The letter he had sent.

He knew that she now knew that she owed him more than the thanks she had yet to deliver. He was going to make her repay the favor. She sprinted into the corridor.

That manipulative bastard.

Now she was coerced into his little scheme of "working together" for Merlin knows what!

Oh no.

She blanched.

He wasn't going to make her join his family in serving the Dark Lord, was he? And sabotage Harry by forcing her to murder her best friend; betrayal where he would least expect it? That kind of working together? Like for the dark side? And they would probably kill her too after she did it, because she is a Mudblood.

Her heart's sudden erratic pace began to strangle her.

_Calm down Hermione, you will kill yourself first if you don't BLOODY CALM DOWN._

She breathed in a choked breath.

That would make sense as to why Draco had saved her in the first place. Why was she thinking he could be any different from his father? Draco Malfoy just needed to keep her alive for Voldemort so she could do the Dark Lord's dirty work for him.

Oh this was the worst!

But it all made sense now.

What was she supposed to do? She could not kill her best friend! That is not how you keep friends! By killing them! Homicide. She would not.

So what should she do?

After a moment of thinking she ran with her bag and headed for the secret passageway that led to Honeydukes. The tunnel that she, Ron, and Harry had discovered with the Marauder's Map during slightly better times. Times when she was not being sought out to destroy Harry and consequently the wizarding world. She took one last look around the castle before sighing dejectedly and wiping away a rogue tear. She would make sure not a trace was left to be seen of Hermione Granger.

* * *

><p>Draco Malfoy was in a delightfully good mood.<p>

There was an extra air of arrogance in his saunter on his way to potions. A class that he had with the Gryffindors. A certain class that he had with a certain a bushy-haired, highly irritable witch.

He was very anxious to annoy the living fluff out of her. And why? Because he could.

_Because you **have** to if you want to keep up appearances._

A frown graced his pale, beautiful face.

He was supposed to be a Malfoy. A Pureblood. Hater of All Things Muggle, The Banes of Wizarding Existance.

Yet here he was very nearly being _nice_ to the Queen of All Things Muggle, The Banes of Wizarding Existance.

If he was going to be being _nice_ to her in secret, he certainly had to make up for it by being an arse to her at all other times at all costs.

He smiled. It wouldn't be so bad. Working with Granger. She was, although it pained him to admit, intelligent. Her brain could really be useful for helping him figure out whatever anarchy is lurking behind the closed doors of Hogwarts, trying to overthrow him. And apparently her. She would be stupid to not want to help him.

After all, this did concern her. She was the one targeted.

Draco sat down at his desk in Potions with a sudden dread threatening to overtake him.

Hermione was already targeted.

Did that mean he was next?

Well…. Shit.

Draco was so consumed by his internal panic that he did not notice that class had already begun. Snape had swept his way over to the Boy-Who-Never-Seemed-To-Be-Able-To-Die's desk and spat, "Where's your little friend Granger, Potter?"

Draco's head whipped in the direction to where she usually sat at the mention of her name, but found her seat was most unusually unoccupied. Well that is, without taking into account her most recent absences, which had all been due to justified illnesses.

"The little know-it-all thinks she knows it all and can skip class? That will not do. Twenty points from Gryffindor," Professor Snape leered before Harry could answer.

Harry Potter, who was clearly distraught, replied, "Professor, Ron and I looked everywhere. Hermione has gone missing."

"Did you check the library?" Someone offered from the class. The Slytherins snickered. Draco followed suit. He had a charade to follow after all.

"Excellent question Miss Parkinson, twenty points to Slytherin," Snape drawled.

"We checked _Every. Where._ I already told you," Seethed Harry. His glasses were slightly askew on his face. His hair, sticking out in many directions, seemed to match his internal panic.

"She will turn up. Twenty points from Gryffindor for having an attitude while addressing me, Mr. Potter. Care to carry on? I certainly don't mind."

Potter stayed silent, but made a show of folding his arms and took to wallowing in deep abyss of anger. The Weasel looked utterly useless and very much near tears.

"Of course she will turn up, she is like a weed, that Mudblood filth," a Slytherin commented from the back of the room. Draco humorlessly chuckled along. He had a part to play.

Snape grinned maliciously at Potter before addressing the class, "Now, everyone shut up and sit down. Open your books to page thirty-seven and follow the instructions. Begin!"

Draco silently turned his attention to the open book in front of him went through the motions of being a carefree, grade-A Slytherin prat. A sneer here, an insult there. All of the usual things that used to bring joy and boatloads of amusement to his heart.

No one seemed to notice that his usual panache was absent from his carefully crafted slurs and that his eyes were blank and devoid of any sort of emotion when he delivered them.

Draco Malfoy was being very careful. He was on the lookout. He knew that if Granger was really missing, he would be next. And the best way to hide in a room full of people is to act no differently at all.

"What do you think happened to Granger?" whispered Zabini while Draco stirred in some chopped roots into the brew.

"She probably got what she deserved," Draco said disinterestedly; his voice perfectly even.

Blaise let out a dry laugh and nodded in agreement. He then glanced back at Crabbe and Goyle before adding quietly, "You know, you-know-who has had it out for him lately." He flicked his head towards the table where Potter and Weasley sat.

What? What does that have to do with anything about Granger? Besides, everyone already knew that Voldemort was after Harry Potter anyway. That was nothing new, not something that had happened "lately."

Draco was grimacing slightly with confusion when a large foot kicked him in the back of the chair. Draco let out a some-what dignified yelp and swiveled himself around in his chair to face the chunky faces of Crabbe and Goyle, who had the decency to look slightly abashed.

"Sorry Draco, foot slipped," garbled Crabbe. Draco glared.

Goyle then proceeded to kick Blaise Zabini.

"Ow!" Blaise turned around indignant, "What the bloody hell was that for?"

"You aren't talking about things," Crabbe began and then dropped his voice lower and glanced surreptitiously at Draco before continuing, "you _aren't supposed to be talking about_, are you?"

Blaise's eyes widened a bit before scoffing and saying like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "No, of course not. What do you take me for? A bloody idiot? I wouldn't dream of stealing that title from the two of you."

Draco and Zabini, the Italian Weenie, turned back around to finish working on their potion. Said Italian was deathly quiet for the rest of class.

* * *

><p>The next day Draco awoke very feeling very much like he would like to drown himself in a cauldron of sleeping potion for a nice nap. He was exhausted from spending the night analyzing instead of sleeping, but nothing seemed any clearer than it had in the dungeons for Potions class.<p>

Blaise— answering to the blathering idiots called Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. Blaise— talking about Potter being freshly targeted by Old Voldie. Hermione— somehow being involved in some way in the latter. And he, himself— knowing absolutely nothing about absolutely everything in the Darker circles. He was a _Malfoy_ for Merlin's sake. Angels should tremble, puff up, and spontaneously combust into feathery balls congealed with the light they bleed at the very whispered mention of his Dark surname. And yet, other Dark families who could not even frighten a fluffy baby penguin knew more. Hell, even the blood-traitor Weasley clan of clownish pansies knew more about the Dark Lord's plans and movements than the Malfoy's do after his father had been thrown into Azkaban.

Which really would all be fine by him; he had never truly wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, he just never had the opportunity to have any other choice. Until his father was out of the picture.

What was wrong with Draco Malfoy's world at the moment was having an incorrigible reputation that was recently rendered completely useless. The stain of the bad reputation follows him everywhere he goes but he can't do anything good with it.

Maybe having Granger help will not only help solve this faster, but also clean the Malfoy name up nicely. The Pureblood heir to a Dark family fortune aiding and working alongside the Wizarding World's Muggle Princess Extrondinare; that would be a story for the books. Instant positive publicity for both his mother and him… if he was successful.

Speaking of Granger… Where the bloody hell was she?

He was sitting at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall when his favorite Gryffindors to hate walked in. The hall audibly quieted a bit as they made their way to their table.

The Golden Duo, looking quite somber and dejected.

The "Duo?" you ask? Didn't Dumbledore's pets seem to rove in a pack of three?

There was no sign of Hermione Granger.

"Now when I ladle our medium for today into your bowl, I want you all to concentrate and tell me what you see."

Draco always knew that the Divination class was a joke. Professor Trelawney probably had Hogwarts' founders turning in their graves with the sheer ridiculousness of it all. I mean tea leaves is one thing. But, really? Alphabet Soup was taking this subject to a whole new level of absurdity. That is probably why he enjoys time spent in Divination; it is always sure to amuse the pants off of Merlin himself.

Professor Trelawney poured a scoop of soup into Draco's bowl. He leaned back in his seat to prevent the soup from splattering all over his fine robes.

Professor Trelawney finished pouring everyone their "medium" and directed the students to follow a series of complicated stirring patterns.

"Now, everyone look!" Professor Trelawney threw her hands up into the air and held them above her head with a dreamy look freezing her features, "And tell me what you see."

Except she dragged out the "see" so it was more like "seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

Draco was chuckling internally as he looked down. The letters of his alphabet soup were slowly swirling to a stop. He peered over his shoulder to see Blaise still stirring rapidly with an avid look of concentration weaved across his dark features. Draco rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to his now still soup. He crinkled his brows in confusion as he tried to sound out the stupid Alphabet gibberish aloud.

He knew he didn't do anything wrong, but why was it that there weren't real words? Just separate random letters amassed about the bowl?

"Solo il Buio può recuperare la Luce," said Blaise from next to him.

"I don't speak Italian, Zabini," Draco said disinterestedly.

"That is what it says."

"What what says?"

"Your soup. It says, 'Solo il Buio può recuperare la Luce.'"

"Once again, I don't speak Italian."

"Only the Dark can recover the Light."

"What?"

"That is what it means."

"Well that is annoyingly cryptic."

"It is your prophecy Mr. Malfoy," Trelawney loomed before the two boys with a knowing look on her face.

"Well why is my prophecy in bloody Italian?" Draco was growing more frustrated by the second.

"Well Mr. Malfoy… that is part of your prophecy."

"Thank you Professor," Draco granted her a false smile as she left to check on the others' bowls.

"Well that was highly revealing," snorted Blaise.

Draco chose to reward his housemate with a choice glare, "Well what does your soup say?"

Blaise ducked his head down and studied it for a moment and then chortled.

"What is so funny?" Draco asked and scoped out the bowl to see for himself, only to find another bowl of gibberish, "I can't read that either."

Blaise started singing loudly in Italian.

"What the hell are you doing Zabini?"

"I am reading my soup."

"… You got… a song…?"

Blaise nodded his head happily.

"A song you already know?"

"Everyone knows this song."

Draco supplied with a blank stare.

"Con Te Partirò?"

"….. no."

"What kind of Italian are you?"

"Um, not Italian? What does that bloody mean anyway?"

"Con Te Partirò?"

"Yes," Draco pinched his nose, "that."

"Oh, it means, 'I'll go with you."

"How nice of you to offer your assistance, Mr. Zabini. Five points to Slytherin," Trelawney was creepily in the very same spot as she was before with Draco, looking at Blaise with the same exact face that she had fixed on Draco not too much earlier.

Blaise inclined his head, accepting the praise as if he did noble things like that all of the time.

Pfft. Deceit.

"Excuse me Professor, what "assistance" are we talking about here?"

Professor Trelawney pulled out her "all-seeing-orb" from her robes and swirled her hands around it before peering up from her large spectacles and in a dazed voice responded, "You need help to seek the help you seek."

"What seeking?" Draco sputtered, "I am not seeking anything."

"Aren't you?" Professor Trelawney asked, picking up Draco's bowl of Alphabet Soup. She pulled a spoon from her robe and devoured the Prophecy in front of a bemused Draco Malfoy.

"Mmm, tastes like enlightenment," she said, putting the bowl back in front of him.

It was empty.

* * *

><p><em>*- <em>Masculine swirls, of course.

* * *

><p>Please review and let me hear your thoughts, comments, opinons, questions, and so on and so forth! It would be greatly appreciated.<p>

I would also like to apologize for the delay in getting out this chapter, I hope you guys are still reading this out there. This chapter was considerably longer. :) Ah, and the song reference: In English it is commonly known as "Time to Say Goodbye" and it is an Italian song preformed by Andrea Bocelli. Classic.


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